


The White Prince of the Black Queen (As It Began)

by BrooklynBugleBoy



Series: Seventh Son of Rhye [2]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst too, Blood, Changelings, F/M, Faeries Made Them Do It, Fairies are evil, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Gore, Grief, Living Cats, Lullabies, Magic, Maybe Cannibalism, Multi, Music, Old Magic, Protective Family, Seelie Court, Stabbing, This is real weird guys, Trans Pregnancy, Trans Roger, Unseelie Court, Weird Fluff, Weird Monster Son, Zombie cats, be warned, faerie - Freeform, loving family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 14:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17489615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrooklynBugleBoy/pseuds/BrooklynBugleBoy
Summary: Morgan used his hands to sweep Roger’s golden hair back in an attractive fashion and settle a flower crown on top. One that he’d woven himself.“You look lovely, Dad. Don’t worry, they’re waiting for you. They’ve been waiting for you forever.”The sigh felt like it was shaking the very moorings of his being. “That’s what I’m afraid of. What if I’m not enough?”His boy lunged forward until they were nose to nose, a proximity that would have seemed uncomfortably close to anyone else. But as his changeling son had never really had a sense of personal space, it was fairly commonplace. Comforting even, as his grown son clung to him in a fashion that had never really changed.“You’re wrong, you know. Roger Meddows Taylor is the best father, the best man and soon to be the best husband in the whole world.”(Seasons go by, months turn to years and suddenly your little boy is a man, ready to give you away at your wedding.)The next installment in the life and times of Roger's Weird Faerie Son.





	The White Prince of the Black Queen (As It Began)

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I wrote this thing on a competition bus heading to nowhereville, so.... if it's trash, hey? :D I tried. (Mostly cause my laptop wasn't there, so I couldn't work on what I wanted) :P
> 
> Features: You'll Be in My Heart from Disney's Tarzan, Seven Seas of Rhye by Queen, Let Me Be Your Wings from Thumbelina and The Willow Maid by Erutan :D 
> 
> ALSO! An enormous thanks to UniversesVisiting!!!! ZOMBIE CATS!!!

_“A young man walked through the forest_

_With his quiver and hunting bow_

_He heard a young girl singing_

_And followed the sound below_

_There he found the maiden_

_Who lives_ _in the willow…”_

 

  
"Dad." 

The word bubbled up from the deepest recesses of Roger Taylor’s consciousness, floating up through the puddles of quicksand and murk. "Dad..." _Hmmm?_

 _"Dad!_ " 

The thirty-something sat bolt upright with a jolt. "What?!" Then collided with the unstoppable force of his son's forehead. "Aw, fuck!" Such bright, colorful vernacular for only a couple seconds of lucidity. Although to Morgan's credit, he only slightly leaned backwards on his heels from where he was kneeling after the sharp blow, with a raised eyebrow and a funny set to his mouth. 

"That was stupid." His tone chiding, as always.

Morrigan Taylor, inexplicably nicknamed _Morgan_ , was all grown up and absolutely done with his father's bullshit. His very very very hungover father's bullshit. It was obvious in the way the older sod reeked of nothing but cheap booze, cigarettes, and poor life decisions, yet again, he sighed.

Although it had been quite a long time since he’d seen his father drink or smoke so vigorously. The upcoming nuptials must have been getting to him.

"I shouldn't do this. You deserve to feel like crap after your bender…” Morgan huffed, but dutifully leaned forwards anyway, to press his flower petal-soft lips against his father's clammy forehead. His Dad’s pain had always been a soft spot for him. “But Bapuji would kill me if I let you mess up today.”

The drummer gave a breathy groan at the surprise contact and sagged back against his mussed bed, eyes blown wide, pupils dilated. The feeling of every ache and pain in his body being swept away. The best kind of high. Far better than baby aspirin at least. That was all they had in the medicine cabinet.

His inexplicable child, his changeling boy, whose innocent guise slipped for a moment, revealing his true feral unearthly eyes that could easily take up three-fourths of his face, black as night from end to end. But as soon as the veil was lifted, it was pulled back in place again. Without a seeing stone, his child’s true form was hidden from him once more.

"What time is it?" Roger sighed, from where he lay sprawled on the bed-clothes.

Morgan shrugged, standing up in his _Tinkerbell_ patterned pajamas and fuzzy blue socks, little hands primed on his rounded hips, his sable curtain of hair sitting tied up in a messy bun on the crown of his head, stray strands floating about his unblinking eyes. "Time for you to get up, Dad...If you want any breakfast, that is." 

The point was moot, however, especially when their house was already full of the heavenly scent of bacon, sausages and eggs. Greasy and heart-cloggingly good, just what no doctor would order after a night of heavy binge drinking. Roger smiled and moved to follow his boy down the soft and carpeted stairs. Phoebe would have made a healthy, vegetarian-safe breakfast for them, he probably had a few hours before, but not his boy, who knew that Roger would be looking for a full fry-up after drinking himself into a stupor.

The drummer yawned, whispering his daily " _I love you._ " as he stretched and rubbed his hand through his son's messy hair, tucking up those few strands into the greater conglomerate. 

Staring periwinkle eyes and a knowing fond smile rested against his chest. “I love you too, Dad." His boy had this way of looking at him. A way that had never changed, no matter how many years had passed them by.

Roger focused on shoveling forkfuls of unhealthy food into his mouth while his son proceeded to devour a spare bouquet of roses, leftover from the wedding preparations.

Had he been less versed in the ancient art of parenting a fae child, he would have pointed out that there were leftover testing cakes in the fridge. Instead what he said was: “There is a shit ton of icing on the taste-testing cakes in the fridge.” Then watched his boy beam with delight as he ate the rosebuds with fistfuls of buttercream icing instead. No regrets there. Not until his annoying perceptive son chimed in once more.

“Why are you scared, Dad?”

The fork paused halfway to his mouth and Roger felt his stomach grow sour.

He sighed. “Sometimes I forget how well you know me, little magic-maker.”

The young man that his son had become without him noticing, just stared at him. Waiting.

His son who was all grown-up now, with a band of his own and a makeshift ring on his finger, a braided clipping of his wife’s hair, twisted around his tiny ring-finger and glowing slightly in the lowlight. A reminder that his once little boy was still so much braver than he. Having married the love of his life a few months previously. Where he himself had been putting off his own wedding for what felt like a million years.

Belle and Morgan had never waned in their love for one another.

Frankly, Roger had just been delighted that the dolphin fling was over. Although he was sure that poor Snoot had been devastated to learn of Morgan’s past nuptials. He himself had been nervous at first too. His little otherworldly boy with softened flower eyes, coming home with a strange girl’s hand in his.

An equally odd girl who’s secrets were just as vast as Morgan’s own.

She was a _dullahan._

An Irish Fairy and harbinger of death, otherwise known as _The Headless Horseman_. Just like the one Ichabod Crane had faced in Sleepy Hollow all those centuries ago. 

Roger hadn’t realized it was so at first, not until they came for an impromptu visit and he staggered down the stairs one morning, eager for coffee, only to see his boy sitting up on the countertop with his dainty legs wrapped around Belle’s waist.

She was a fair bit taller than him so that position was the only way Morgan could reach her neck in order to sew her decapitated head back onto its sluggishly bleeding wound. His delicate fingers had been sliding in the black blood, a disgusting puddle and yet he didn’t seem to mind. For every time Belle made a noise of pain or impatience, however small or slight, Morgan would curl his toes and sit up a little straighter, pressing a tiny kiss to the first place on her face that he could reach.

It wasn't the first time Roger had seen Morgan do anything strange of course, his son had never been ordinary, but it was the same morbid curiosity present in all, that drove him to observe and relive the gory nature of the action. Waiting for his coffee as he leaned against the opposite counter.

The way the needle made a low _schlurping_ noise as it dug into the masticated flesh once more, knitting together cut sinews and tissue that resembled more ground beef than supple skin, as dark acrid blood oozed sluggishly from holes between the crooked stitches. It looked a right mess.

But that was because the magic hadn't kicked in yet. 

The old magic hidden in his child and in the girl who held him close. _(Rog saw how she had her knees pressed in the cabinets below, hands on his boy’s waist, ready to catch him if he should fall)._

Magic that would turn the glowing, horrifying, jack-o-lantern face grinning ear-to-ear into the living, breathing face of his child’s lover. 

It would heal those bumpy cockeyed stitches into a scar that could be hidden under clothing.

Until the time would come for Belle to _ride_ once more, the angel of death on a black motorcycle, pointedly missing a head. A head she would yank off herself, sliding slick bloody fingers underneath the little scarred notch on her neck and ripping off her own skull and everything else that came with it. 

Suddenly the soft, doting face of Morgan’s beloved would turn monstrous, letting off a bloodcurdling scream loud enough to wake the dead. Nobody lived once their name was uttered by Belle's twisted mouth. _A rule for every dullahan._

But that didn't mean that she was evil or even a true monster. She could only take the souls of people destined to die on that very night. It was simply her job to collect them and guide them towards the afterlife. So that they wouldn't get lost and trapped in limbo, becoming something much worse by staying. 

Unfortunately, her necessity didn't change how terrifying Belle looked when she was in her true form. A Unseelie faerie cloaked in dark shadows, riding astride an enormous black steed, carrying a bloody whip made from the rippling, crackling spines of many dead men. 

No one needed a seeing stone to reveal the true guise of a dullahan.

Morgan had looked up with a wide smile when he’d noticed Roger watching them. “Hiya Dad!” Bright and sunshiny as always.

A sullen Belle had unrepentingly flipped the drummer off.

_(Yeah, they had never really gotten on the best)._

“Dad?” All at once, he was dragged out of his reverie and back into the real world at the sound of Morgan’s plaintive voice. “Are you alright?”

Roger nodded slowly, worrying at his bottom lip with a vengeance. “I should… go get dressed.” He stood and Morgan followed only a few steps behind. It was those same gentle and still-so-small hands that assisted him with worming into his wedding get-up. Roger squinted at the strange embroidered and dyed leathery fabric that he couldn’t identify, the whole cloak and robe was made from it, with only crushed red velvet on the inside for comfort.

“Morgan,” His son’s pointed ears perked up at the sound of his name and he gave a little hum to show that he was listening, as everything was pulled together precisely beneath his calculating little fingers. “Is this made out of _skin?”_

The young man didn’t answer. So Roger rephrased the question.

“Is this made out of _human skin?”_

His son merely shrugged, not at all alarmed by the thought. “Well, yes and no. Do you remember that bloke Bapuji was dating before? The one who sent him to hospital?”

“Yes.” Roger’s jaw popped as he clenched it, even the thought of that arsehole was enough to make him bristle.

“Well, I saved his skin after I ate him. Turns out he was good for something, after all.” A beaming smile with dagger-teeth. “The rest is from a kindly old cow who died of natural causes, she donated it for your wedding garb. I asked her.”

Morgan used his hands to sweep Roger’s golden hair back in an attractive fashion and settle a flower crown on top. One he’d woven himself out of belladonna, mandrake, elder berries, lavender, laurel and ivy. “You look _lovely,_ Dad. Don’t worry, they’re waiting for you. They’ve been waiting for you _forever.”_

The sigh felt like it was shaking the very moorings of his being. “That’s what I’m afraid of. What if… what if I’m _too much? Or not enough?_ ” _What if I disappoint them?_

His boy lunged forward until they were nose to nose, a proximity that would have seemed uncomfortably close to anyone else. But as his changeling son had never really had a sense of personal space, it was fairly commonplace. Comforting even, as his grown son clung to him in a fashion that had never really changed. “You’re wrong, you know. Roger Meddows Taylor is the best father, the best man and soon to be the best husband in the whole world.”

“You say that like it’s fact, little magician.” A fond sigh and smile.

“Because it is! Now hold still, I have to coax the ivy. It’s being temperamental.” He crooned in those dulcet tones to the foliage in Roger’s hair, until a few stray tendrils of ivy curled around his ears obediently.

“Perfect! Now I’ve—“

Morgan was cut off by a plaintive meow, one of the cats nudging at his calf. It’s twitching disembodied paw sticking out of it’s mouth.

Ah, so it was one of the older babies then. Sweet Jerry, who had been reanimated after being struck by a truck a few years prior. Roger nearly shuddered at the sight of the zombie cat, who was almost ordinary looking. Almost. If it weren’t for the thick ring of clumpy stitches around his neck or the milky sheen of his eyes, and now the missing paw, he could have been mistaken for a living thing. The animal dropped the disembodied limb at Morgan’s feet, a silent command of _‘Fix it!’_ like a child with a vigorously loved toy.

Ever the caterer, Morgan cooed and dragged the crunchy creature into his lap, delicately sewing the paw back on the stump, like he often did with Belle’s head. _(Roger didn’t even want to know where his son had gotten that strange thread. It looked almost like sinew)._ The little tom reveled in the attention and purred loudly, nuzzling against the changeling and nipping at those deceptively porcelain hands with his impressive little fangs.

Morgan only laughed.

_God, their lives were so weird._

And yet, Roger wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  
-X-

  
“ _He called to her as she listened_  
_From a ring of toadstools red_  
_"Come with me, my maiden_  
_Come from thy willow bed”_

 _She looked at him serenely_  
_And only shook her head.”_

  
-X-

  
It was just a bad night, a sorry set of circumstances that had culminated in them marching home like a bunch of desperate sods, trying to carry most of their equipment along with them.  _(Reminding them all of the early days, when moments like these were commonplace)._

John’s bass case was haphazardly slung across his back and his thin arms were full of sleeping boy, certainly too old to be carried in such a way, but the boy had always been so small for his age and they’d kept him up for hours. The night was remarkably peaceful, almost serene in its apparent tranquility.

Until some assholes tried to jump them that is. 

 _Tried,_ being the operative word.

Nobody was going to lay a malcontented hand on Morgan’s family.

Not while he was there to protect them.

Tired or not, the boy was instantly alert with his unearthly bright eyes that shone púca orange in the meager light. Some bloke with short wispy hair like wheat, dared to lay his dirty hands on a nearby surprised Brian and nearly sent the beanpole sprawling with his shove, waving around a thick knife like it was a toy.

_Careless, foolish. Easy prey._

The changeling child felt John’s hands tighten around his slight body, to hold him ever closer, to protect him from the visible danger.

The soft boy reached out to touch the brunette’s cheek, a silent apology, before he lashed out to combat it. A tiny bare foot snapping out and catching Deaky sharply in the ribs. The young father winced with a gasp and released the child on reflex.

Allowing the little imp to twist out of his hold and land like a cat, smiling before he charged, the cry that tore free from his throat was unnatural, unnerving, and it had all happened within only a handful of seconds.

" _Morgan! Get back here! Now!”_

A terrified Freddie hissed, visibly desperate, with his eyes blown cocaine-wide and a voice strained from the show before, leaving it raw and painful. "Don't hurt him! Please! We'll do whatever you want! Give you whatever you want, just please…!”

Brian looked like he was echoing the sentiment, a frantic nod, wringing his long lanky hands. John was too busy gawking at their child, at the little boy’s fighting stance, as he positioned himself between the nasty blokes and his family.

“ _Morrigan."_

The boy’s orchid eyes flicked back to Roger’s. The blonde was horrified, his breaths escaping his parted mouth in pants, terrified. But he knew his son. He knew what his boy was capable of. So instead of darting forwards to grab his son and shielding him with all he had, he forced himself to simply nod. He knew who would win in the fight, long before it ever occurred.

The four of them watched as sharp teeth forced their way past the tiny boy’s lips as he bared them in a gruesome bloody smile, he'd sliced open the corner of his mouth by accident in the attempt. His eyes were no longer the soothing periwinkle they usually were, instead they grew as black as coal, glowing in the darkness, animalistic and murderous. Claws split the skin of his fingers, the blood puddling on the floor beneath him. He was no púca, but he could still mimic one.

" _Run_." Morgan growled at the arseholes who lingered, looking every bit like the bloodthirsty monster he was.

And they did. 

Two of them pissed themselves beforehand, the sharp scent of submission filled his animal nose, but they did run.

It was only once he turned back to his family, forcing the human face glamour back in order and both bare feet on the ground once more, that he noticed the shiny knife hilt sticking out of his thigh. How? Had the man _thrown it? Gross._ It looked like the whole bloody thing was buried in there. 

His family flipped their shit. 

Which was understandable, given that about three-fourths of them, thought such a thing could hurt him long term. _(It really couldn't, the blade wasn't even iron. It was silver, the shitty bloke had good taste)._

Freddie’s hands fluttered over the wound anxiously, looking like he was right on the cusp of having a panic attack. He was also screaming, so loudly that Morgan resisted the urge to cup and cradle his pointed ears to block out the noise. Brian looked like he was just about to run for a pay-phone to ring an ambulance, but Roger managed to stop him.

"It's okay, Brimi, I promise. Let's just get him home, I can handle this and explain everything there.” The drummer scooped up his little boy, allowing the child to rest a comforting hand against his soft cheek, remembering far too late that it was still covered in blood. Ew. 

"What do you mean _'explain everything'?!_ He has a knife in his leg! He needs to go to hospital, Roger! He’s bleeding! _Oh my God!"_ Brian shrieked, finishing with something so garbled that the blonde had no hope of understanding it. "I'll call for help, I'll call an ambulance! _Oh God!"_ He lunged desperately for the pay-phone only a few paces away.

Poor John was as pale as a sheet, just trying to breathe, his eyes never leaving the wound. They weren't going to be able to get to the apartment, not like this. So Roger reached for his son’s pants instead. He popped the button on those shorts and tugged them down to reveal Morgan’s rubber duck patterned boxer-briefs, stopping when he reached the hilt. 

"What are you doing?!" Brian wheezed through his covered mouth, looking horrified and  overstimulated, choked by his anxiety. There was still blood smeared on Roger’s face, the whole lot of it like a scene out of a horror movie.

The youth took ahold of the hilt and ripped it out of his son’s leg in one swift motion, the odd boy didn’t even whimper at the sensation (or blink), then Roger rapidly tugged those shorts down the rest of the way. The spurt of blood was sudden and he had to stop Freddie, Deaky and Brian from putting pressure on the wound. They were going to miss it. " _Look._ " He sighed, far too used to all the magic in his life. 

While his boy was enraptured with the dagger, they gawked at him.

 _(It was actually a pretty nice knife, all glossy and free from rust, so yeah, Morgan was definitely keeping it)._ But the three humans were too busy staring at Morgan’s leg. Watching as the blood dried up, like turning off a garden hose and scabbed itself over. Then the little boy waited about a minute, until he saw the edges of the scab began to flake and curl up with age. Then Morgan gently rubbed his thumb at it, until it came away in clumps. Leaving nothing but a knot of pink new skin that would be porcelain white and indistinguishable from the rest by morning. They both gaped, Freddie even reached forwards with trembling fingers to touch the supple skin. Healed and healthy. 

 _"What. The. Hell."_ Deaky whispered.  

Brian didn't even make a sound. 

Roger huffed a laugh, shaking his head. ”Our kid’s something else, isn’t he?” An uncomfortable smile.

The three of them were silent. 

A plus, since he'd assumed at least one was going to run away screaming. 

"Please, when we get home, trust me, I can explain everything.” 

Which turned into the most awkward walk of his life. 

Morgan tapping at his bloodied cheek. “Can I show them my _wings_ , Dad? I’ve been waiting so long…”

Freddie choked on his own spit.

Brian slowly shook his head, forcing a brittle smile. “Are they the glued on kind or…?”

Roger gave another uneasy smile, as he shook his head.

Later that night, as Freddie, Deaky and Brian collectively lost their shit. _(Freddie had darted to the bedroom, crawling on his hands and knees to dig out his old mythology tomes, searching for all he had on faerie and the fey folk. Because ‘oh god, holy shit it was real, all his suspicions were true!’. Deaky was pacing and deep breathing, trying to collect himself in their tiny kitchenette, whilst poor Brian had completely blocked out any thought of faeries or the unquantifiable. He had gone over to focus on his astrophysics homework instead)._ A grinning Roger and his nearly twelve-year-old sat on the kitchen floor, eating their way through a big tub of mint chip ice-cream.

Instead of that ferocious appetite that changelings were known for, taking over once more and Morgan finishing it, he stopped quite early on and pressed his spoon into Roger’s hand instead.

“For _Nimue.”_ He yawned, crawling over and snuggling into Roger’s side. Those round lavender eyes growing heavy and his little nose nuzzling into the drummer’s ribs.

Now, the blonde had no idea who the hell Nimue was, but he sure as hell wasn’t about to pass up free ice-cream. So he dug in by himself, watching to make sure the rest of the boys were okay, as well as singing a little song to the dozing imp in his lap.

“ _Messenger from seven seas has flown_  
_To tell the king of Rhye he's lost his throne_  
_Wars will never cease_  
_Is there time enough for peace?_  
_The lily of the valley doesn't know…”_

He was so distracted, that he didn’t notice the tiny hand that inched down until it pressed against his belly. Or the small sleepy smile that spread across his son’s softened face.

_Nimue Meillion Taylor (May-Mercury-Deacon)._

_Nim_ wouldn’t need a seeing stone.

Nim would _always_ be able to see.

Being fey meant Morgan _knew_ things.

Sometimes that meant visions of a little girl in his mind’s eye. A little girl with scabby knees and grass stains on her overalls. A tornado of short red curls, an impressive overbite and creamy tan skin, dimples and pigtails, round eyes as green as the clover she was named for and rosy cheeks. A fearless pirate-knight with a wooden sword and blue clogs on her feet. _Nim._

Roger rolled his eyes when he saw Freddie rush towards them with a copy of _A Midsummer Night’s Dream. “I knew it, dears, I just knew it! I knew it had to be real!”_

Morgan snuggled closer.

  
-X-

  
‘ _“See me now_  
_A ray of light in the moondance_  
_See me now_  
_I cannot leave this place_  
_Hear me now_  
_A strain of song in the forest_  
_Don't ask me_  
_To follow where you lead”’_

  
-X-

  
John Deacon learned quite early on that Morgan was _different_ , that their boy was unquantifiable. _Unexplainable._

For a man of science and engineering, the idea of an living-breathing impossibility should have been frightening. But how could it be? When Morgan was so _good?_

The little imp loved to bake, to frost intricate cupcakes and leave them on the windowsill for strangers to gaze at. To watch dough rise in the oven or come to life within his hands. To _create_ with those little hands that Freddie so loved to adorn with bright sparkly nail-polish. The little future bassist who would follow along and listen to John’s instructions with the most rapt attention. _(He was there at his son's first concert, and he cried like a baby)._

Their son who often, without hesitation, handed out his allowance to any needy person he came across on their daily walks together.

Once to a homeless man and his dog, a yellow lab with gray speckling her muzzle, who lifted her heavy head from a moth-eaten blanket just long enough to vigorously lick Morgan’s palm. _Sweet girl._ The little boy spent a couple of seconds running his hands over her floppy ears, fingers digging into her neck scruff, gazing into those big cloudy eyes. _Cataracts,_ that soon melted away under the changeling’s careful ministrations. The odd child who spoke to the dog in a way that made the bedraggled creature bark back, as if she understood.

"Thank you, _Grazie a Dio."_

Big cold hands enveloped those small ones. And John resisted the urge to drag his son away, but Morgan didn't recoil from them. 

"No. Thank you,  _Padre_." 

The grimy cross around the old man's neck was proof enough, as was the wooden rosary that served as his dog's collar. John had spent many years in church, despite not being overtly religious himself. It was the place his younger sister had found her solace. Julie took refuge there, so it was only fitting for him to go occasionally and support his sister. He most certainly knew the form of a man of God, even after his original apprehension. An apprehension that his child didn’t seem to share.

The little boy dropped his backpack and hurriedly dug through the pack to find something of nutritional value to give to the old man. They rarely had anything with them so the most he could offer were a few fruit packs and pudding cups. But he handed them over nonetheless. 

"I'm sorry I don't have more to give you.”

The old man took them gratefully, and before John walked away, his child’s hand in his, a liver-spotted hand grabbed at _his own_ this time.

‘ _"You shall not allow a sorceress to live.”’_

John froze, hand tightening around his son’s.

" _Exodus 22:18.”_

He got a toothless grin in return; gummy, cavernous and gaping.

  
-X-

  
“ _A young man walked through the forest_  
_With a flower and coat of green_  
_His love had hair like fire_  
_Her eyes an emerald sheen_  
_She wrapped herself in beauty_  
_So young and so serene…”_

  
_-_ X-

  
Morgan had paused in the alleyway on his walk home from school.

An orange tabby cat queen with a very round belly, one that was clenching up and seizing painfully every few minutes with contractions, was laying in a half-opened pizza box, still disgusting and dripping with grease. Such a sorry sight. 

The horrified changeling child had scooped her up without hesitation, carried her all the way home wrapped in his school blazer, and put down a whole bunch of towels and blankets in the bathtub to make her comfortable.

The queen was panting with her mouth stretched wide open, her eyes were narrowed to slits and visible contractions coursing through her otherwise thin body, so she'd probably been in labor for quite a while. Kittens couldn't be that far off. When he gently rubbed the pad of his thumb against her fuzzy angel-soft forehead, she started to tremble something fierce and he was terrified he'd hurt her. As it turned out, she was just purring. … _He loved her already._

The little monster grabbed a tin of Vaseline from the kitchen and rubbed some on the queen's opening, using the same moment to feel if there was a kitten stuck in the birth canal. But no, he could feel the nubs of a little kitten's feet pushing out breech.

It was coming out backwards.

The creature groaned and grunted as the gray matter began to slip out of her opening. An amniotic sac, Morgan would know that material anywhere, human or cat. He coaxed it gently, trying not to be too interventional and trying not to completely abandon the kitting queen. She kept writhing around and flinging her body to push out the first kitten. She must've been exhausted, but he didn't dare intervene. 

Merely used his magic to soothe the pain and sustain the health of each tiny feline involved.

The little mess wholly slid out in a squishy mass and the little cat twisted around to nip at the sac, tearing it open to lap at the slick fur and begin devouring the placenta. She bit about halfway through the cord, before Morgan reached over to tear through the rest of it with his own fingers. The mama cat would take care of the rest. And so she did. 

Until there were five wriggling rat-like things suckling at her swollen nipples and she finally stilled. 

It had been a little touch and go for a while there, Morgan wasn't a vet yet, that wasn’t for several years down the road and yet had popped open two stubborn sacs, nudged several little deaf-blind creatures toward their mother and rubbed clean little pink noses all night. It was the most satisfied he’d ever felt.

By the time the worst was over, he was covered in sticky birth fluids and at least ten-times more of a mess than he was when he'd first arrived, but he still bounded out of the bathroom and shouted as loud as he could.

_“I’m a father!”_

Brian, coming out of the master bedroom’s shower, in little more than a towel wrapped around his waist, practically _wheezed_ in surprise. Better than poor Roger, who had been sitting and smoking at the kitchen table, and then had vigorously choked on his own cigarette. John had just shrugged, their little family was so weird that he half-expected to walk into the bathroom and find a burbling little tree baby in the tub.

Yet after quick explanation, all were eager enough to come see Morgan’s kitty babies.

Which was also how the five babies _(Leo, Aquarius, Virgo, Cancer, Gemini)_ as well as their Mum, Pisces, got their names. _(Thank you, Brimi May!)_

“Ooo! You named them after _the star signs?”_

Freddie would exclaim later when he found them with the kits. Poor Brian looking like he was about to pop a blood vessel from sheer indignation alone and Morgan just laughed.

...

When a yawning Deaky popped in later that night, he found their son curled up next to the bathtub, his skinny arm dangling inside so that he could feel the kitties breathing and be right there if they needed him. The long-suffering bassist sighed fondly and scooped up his little boy, humming a lullaby and threatening to murder to anyone who dared tease him for it.

Especially his partners, who would find him in that position a few hours later, still cradling their son even in slumber. Much like the mama cat in the tub still cradled her kits.

 _“You'll be in my heart_  
_No matter what they say_  
_You'll be here in my heart_  
_Always…_ ”

  
-X-

  
“ _He stood there under the willow_  
_And he gave her the yellow bloom..._

_"Girl, my heart you've captured_

_Oh, I would be your groom.”_

  
_She said she'd wed him never_

_Not near, nor far, nor soon…”_

  
_-_ X-

  
Their little boy used to have tea parties around the back of the house.

Cucumber sandwiches and berries from the fey folk. A little amalgamation of brownies, gnomes, pixies and goblins. The sidhe who most often came to call. To anyone else, it seemed as though he were talking to his imaginary friends. But his fathers’ knew the truth and Freddie would often come to sit with him, eager to see the fey folk the way his son so often did.

“Hmm, that nice chap Bristol. What was he again?”

“A _goblin!”_ Morgan chirped, beaming from ear to ear like the little fair folk child he was.

Freddie smiled right back, just as wide. “Are we sure your _Daddy_ isn’t one of those?”

“Hey, I heard that!”

“You were meant to, dear!” Then whipping back to his sunshine boy. “I’m just saying, have you seen the way your father smiles when he’s excited? Let’s just say I wouldn’t be keen to see that in the dark.”

Roger stuck out his tongue like a petulant child and Freddie rolled over to press a kiss to his soft blonde fuzzy temple.

“You know I love you, _My Goblin King.”_

Rolled eyes. “Yeah Fred, I know. I love you too, _you great king prat.”_

  
_-_ X-

  
_“A young man walked through the forest_  
_With an axe sharp as a knife_

 _"I'll take the green-eyed fairy_  
_And she shall be my wife_  
_With her I'll raise my children_  
_With her I'll live my life.”’_

  
_-_ X-

  
The wedding was held in the Truro countryside and it was beautiful.

It really did look like an enchanted forest.

Oak, rowan and hazel trees bending together at Morgan’s command to form an elaborate canopy, high up in the treetops. Tendrils of ivy curled down like plumes of angel hair, shaking slightly in the gentle summer’s breeze. The pews were trees that had been tossed aside in storms or bent into curves for the day. Eager to please the prince who had come home to them at last. All manner of fair folk waited and watched on the outskirts of the clearing. The nice fey folk he often spoke with, daring brownies who road on his shoulders and pixies who nestled up in his hair. As well as the less kind who lurked in the wood, watching and waiting for the perfect time to strike.

“ _Morgie!”_

Little Nim screeched like the banshee that she should have been born as, careening over in a tizzy of rosy curls and a dress made of yellow chiffon and cowslips. Her dancing glen eyes were alight with excitement and Morgan caught her with practiced hands.

Twirling and whirling them up a few feet, his wings free and fluttering to catch the air. She squealed with joy and that made it all worthwhile. Humming a song he so often sang to Belle when they were cuddled up at night, speaking of, the wedding was about to start and his wife was nowhere to be seen, he pouted pretty viciously because of that. She was often out collecting at the most inopportune of times, he knew that. But just because he was used to it, didn’t mean he liked it.

 _“Let me be your wings_  
_Leave behind the world you know_  
_For another world of wondrous things._  
_We'll see the universe and dance on Saturn's rings._  
_Fly with me and I will be your wings…”_

But his little Nim soon had him smiling once more. His lovely little girl who had grown up crawling about on all fours with her big brother, exploring badger holes and fox dens. Facing the fair folk that she had always been able to see, with a little wooden sword and a different sort of bravery, the one that she’d been born with. The same kind as their Dad. He could very clearly see the blonde drummer in his baby sister and he relished in every moment of it.

When his bare feet touched down on the soft pillowy grass once more, he glanced over at the tree-line with unease. “Nim, what are the rules?”

He was not going to worry his dads, or interrupt the wedding for such frivolities. But he wasn’t about to leave the little girl unattended either. She whined and pouted, but he insisted and soon enough the seven-year-old had her arms crossed and recited the rules he had drilled into her mind from the first moment she was settled into his arms.

_And he gave her the gift of courage._

_“Never say thank you to faeries, never accept food or gifts, always be polite, never tell a fey your name, and never take anything that isn’t given.”_ She rolled her eyes, bottom lip jutting out and hip cocked, a veritable clone of Freddie. She really did take too much after every one of their dads.

He smiled. “Now I have a special job for you Nimsy.” She was instantly attentive. “I need you to greet all the guests when they come over, tell them to sit down and have some refreshments. While I try to keep the procession going, okay?”

She nodded and scampered off to where Miami and his bandmates waited. Anne-Marie, his darling guitarist with her bright hair and snake-bite piercings, was quick to bend down and adjust the toy sword at his sister’s waist, while Steve, his smart-mouthed drummer, was busy plying her with a few cupcakes that Morgan himself had made the day before. His synth goddess Rozy was sitting up on the table, glasses perched on her forehead and pointedly waving him off. Morgan could practically hear the shouted: _‘She’ll be fine, Princess! We’ve got this!’_  With the same tone and inflection as the teasing _‘Ready, Princess?’_ that he got before every concert.

So he knew Nim was in good hands.

And off he went to try and corral their animal visitors.

“No, Bapuji! Do not try to _domesticate_ the mountain lion! He’s just your escort down the aisle!…. Yes, he promised me that he _wasn’t_ going to eat anyone! Yes, he can purr. No, that isn’t a _challenge! Ugh!”_

All the while an inquisitive little girl, snuck away from her babysitters _(who had become enraptured with starry eyes, in talk of touring as Knights of The White Prince with Miami managing them),_ and found a familiar path in the Truro wood.

  
-X-

  
_“The maiden wept when she heard him_  
_When he said he'd set her free_  
_He took his axe and used it_  
_To bring down her ancient tree_

 _"Now your willow's fallen_  
_Now you belong to me…_ ”’

  
-X-

  
Morgan had instructed his younger sister on many facets of the world unseen.

Yet he had forgotten to warn her of the toadstool rings that lurked where fey had trod, or the tricks of the fair folk. That they would coax her away in any way they could. If they wanted her, they would chase her to the ends of their territory without question. She would become a prize to them, by merely evading capture.

But the wee lass was curious. She had never seen a forest so beautiful before and so she inched ever closer, as her parents’ wedding commenced only feet away.

No one noticed the little girl who peered into the wood, flickers of blue light bewitching her clear-sighted eyes. Nor the creature she spotted, lying on the rolling grass just a few feet past the tree-line. The wolf cub was completely black, with sad soulful eyes, the color of the pale blue icicles that dripped from their house’s painted shutters in wintertime. 

It was just a scruffy pup really, too young to have strayed so far from the den, with a mouth full of milk teeth and a red flower of blood blooming beneath it. The arrow was buried up to the shaft in the obsidian fur, and every stilted breath sent more blood oozing from the puncture. The tiny cub was going to die, alone in the wood, keening for a mother who lay dead just paces away. Her empty eyes were open, a fat pink tongue lying frozen and stiff from a gaping maw.

Nim was horrified, she had been raised in a household where every animal soul was something sacred. So she erred too close, desperate to help the struggling cub.

Tossing her wooden sword aside and then using her free hands to cup the poor thing. Cradling it to her chest, heedless of the blood stains or the weak way in which the creature was thrashing. Her ruddy curls were falling in her soft green eyes as they filled with tears. “It’s okay, baby. You’re going to be okay.”

Then the thing in her arms _shifted_ , and her eyes widened with horror.

Its skin was tearing apart, exposing thick coarse red spikes of wiry hair underneath, not soft black cub fuzz, red from color and red from blood. Its joints grew and snapped backwards individually, the sound tearing through the air like gunshots, and its joints warped themselves into something wrong. Something bloodthirsty and enormous. Claws ripping open flesh and exposing nerves and gore.

She _screamed._

As a familiar pair of hands closed around her waist, dragging her backwards, yet they were too far into the wood.

Too far into a world unseen.

  
-X-

  
“ _She followed him out the forest_  
_And collapsed upon the earth_  
_Her feet had walked but a distance_  
_From the green land of her birth.”_

  
_-_ X-

  
Brian had been escorted down the aisle by a veritable horde of badgers and foxes, while John had just about every snake and lizard in the forest crawling under his tunic for warmth and Freddie had a purring mountain lion in his lap.

Of all the ways Roger had dreamt of his life being one day, this wasn’t even close: marrying three wonderful men, playing music all his life, his amazing children… _God, he was so fucking blessed._ For a moment, he even doubted his worthiness for such a beautiful life. But when his son’s hands closed around his torso and gently glided them upwards, his wings shimmering in the sunlight, to sit him up on the back of a mighty bull elk with a pair of many pointed antlers, Roger knew that all was how it was meant to be. Even if he did awkwardly resemble a fey prince riding into battle.

His own wicked and fair white prince touched down lightly on the ground again, but took hold of Roger’s sweaty hand still.

His odd little boy who had becoming a strapping young man without him noticing.

If everyone in their wedding party looked ethereal and beautiful, his young son was in a class all his own. His Morgan looked as though he belonged to the wood still. A crown of roses and thorns adorned his long hair, the locks twisting and falling to his waist, a blackened shroud occasionally catching in the wind. He wore no shirt, only a sash of bright orange trumpet vines blooming as they curled across his chest, his dark trousers were made of softened tree bark and the occasional tulip petal. His cloak of wisteria and hyacinth fluttering in his wake and adorning those shining wings.

Flowers bloomed where his child stepped and those bewitching lavender eyes caught his own once more.

“Are you ready, Dad?”

Flashing an impish little smile, one that Roger had been loving for so long, that he’d almost forgotten what life was like without it. _I love you, my little magic-maker._ The words toyed on Roger’s lips. But he didn’t say them. Instead a little inexplicable rhyme popped into his head. A rhyme that he couldn’t remember learning… Maybe he’d learnt it as a child?

 _Are you a witch?_  
_Or are you a fairy?_  
_Or are you the wife of Michael Cleary?_

He shook his head and smiled again, “Yes. I think I am.”

His boy walked him down the aisle, Roger sitting astride a great beast and focused only on the three handsome men waiting for him at the end. Each wearing a flower crown and similar garb, it was almost like the ending of a Disney movie.

A beautiful wedding for the heroes, a celebration for all, and suddenly he was happy about Freddie’s chosen venue. As uneasy as he’d been about having the ceremony in the forests near to where he’d grown up. It really made things return full circle. He had to stifle the urge to shake his fist and look wryly at the sky. _Look at me, you asshole, look at the life I built._

Soon he had three rings on his hand. As did Freddie, John and Brian. Each of them practically falling to bits as they said their vows, promising to love each other for all their lives. For all eternity even, if given half a chance. They were _it_ for him.

They were the loves of his life and he would never ever find anyone or anything else so wonderful again.

Not a single eye was dry in the whole vicinity and Roger was so _happy_ , it felt like he was liable to float up into oblivion. Pure joy in every ounce.

But before he could kiss his husbands for the first time, a loud bloodcurdling _scream_ cut through the air like a knife. Juxtaposition at its finest.

His first instinct was to grab and protect his family, searching out his children with wide horrified eyes.

But Morgan was faster than him, he always had been.

The man his little boy had become, took to the air. Flitting faster than the eye could see to the edge of the forest and disappearing into the green.

_“Nimue! Morrigan!”_

Roger screamed himself as he ran towards the tree-line. A horrible sense of deja vu leadening his limbs. He remembered being a much younger man and racing forward in much of the same way, trying to reach his son before the inevitable.

Only this time, he was flanked by the men he loved, each of them desperate to save their children. His boy’s bandmates, Phoebe, Miami, their friends turned family, all of them running beside him. Roger was no longer alone.

The familiar flash of blue light in the shadows of the forest caught his eye and he wanted to weep. He knew those faerie lights, knew what they prophesied, knew what they promised.

_Oh no, oh shit!_

The _Will o' the wisps_ guiding him along once more. He ran ever faster, skidding to a halt when he saw his daughter sobbing and practically curled up into a ball with her wailing.

His hands were instantly on her, searching for any visible wounds, anything that could have happened to her while their backs were turned, viciously berating himself for his every mistake.

She curled into him and sobbed, so he lifted her up into his lap, trying to soothe her and he looked all around for his son, even staggering to his feet in order to properly whip himself around, blue eyes stretched wide.

“Morgie! Little magic-maker, please, _where are you!?”_

No one answered him, his boy was nowhere in sight.

John was panting when he reached Roger’s side, “Have you found him? Do you know where he might’ve gone?” He gasped over the din of Nim’s cries. Roger desperately shook his head, still calling out, while he tried in vain to soothe his bereft daughter. With every shout of Morgan’s name, she seemed to only wail harder.

Freddie was peering into the trees with no avail, his teeth worrying his bottom lip as he frantically dug in his pockets for the seeing stone he’d been given so long ago. Brian was calling for their son as well, asking the guests to please remain calm as they handled the situation. Roger had half a mind to charge deeper into the forest to search him out. Certain that nothing could have happened, his son was an adult now, Morgan was self-sufficient, it wasn’t like when his boy was a child.

He could look after himself now.

Roger’s throat was still tight and finally, he passed their girl into Freddie’s waiting arms, he was going to find his boy, one way or another.

But in the transfer, Freddie cooing out sweet nothings to soothe their little girl, a bundle fell out of her hands.

A _shirt._

A shirt that Roger gingerly took into his own hands, unwrapping the makeshift parcel, until there was a _flower_ revealed. A beautiful and recently plucked little orchid, the same shade as his sweet son’s eyes. Wrapped in an old sodden button-up shirt, full of unmentionable stains. Very similar to the ones he used to wear when he was first transitioning. Similar to what he was wearing that night when he….

Roger’s eyes widened.

The new  _scream_ that cut through the forest was far louder than Nim’s had been.

It was long, drawn out and made of pure unbridled grief, as the poor blonde man fell to his knees.

And it took Roger a long time to realize that such an unholy sound had come from his own mouth.

The same way it had taken him far too long to realize, that he was holding the same shirt he had once used as his dead daughter’s swaddling blanket.

  
-X-

  
_“She faded into a flower_

_That would bloom for one bright eve_

_He could not take from the forest_

_What was never meant to leave...”_

  
-X-

 


End file.
